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Twelve seconds. THE LAST TWELVE SECONDS. OPEN! And when it rings for the last time – I must die. It must be so… There was a time – I could play with this thought, tormented by fever. And while I waited for our mad “thousand-year-old” clock to strike the twelfth every sixty seconds on the wall above my sickbed, while my grandfather’s thousand times blessed hand brushed my forehead – it was always good for me to die a little… Since then I know: this is not a game. Here, in Central Europe, even the clocks run on a different time.

Andor Szilágyi – The unworldly witness (excerpt)